The First
by 5Daimyo
Summary: An investigator explores a small mining town's deepest secrets...


Chapter One

"Name?" The receptionist asked.

"Casey Roberts."

"Mmm..." the man typed momentarily. Clicking the mouse, shifting it and clicking even more. He tapped two more keys, then looked back up, "Okay, Mr. Roberts, you'll be in room seventeen. Slide your hand this way to zap your fingerprints and the door will be authorized by the time you get up."

I stuck my hand onto the finger-printer and let it scan the grooves. The device hummed methodically, its blue resonance fitting perfectly to the melody it so fittingly orchestrated. The panel beeped and stopped it's mellow segment. The receptionist's computer garbled as the information uploaded.

"Mmm... okay. You're all set. Enjoy your stay at Dasan's Inn."

I smiled and left the desk, taking a flight of stairs up to room seventeen. The night was getting late and after the long travel to this disturbingly simple town I could use the rest.

But my luck had other plans. The room's scanner failed to acknowledge my hand-prints. It angrily noted me as being "Invalid" and, on the third try, almost violently suggested I leave the premises or check back up at the desk for help. In defiance I tried a fourth-time, only to have the scanner blink red and buzz mildly. The lack of further instruction gave the machine a human quality that I found unsettling.

So I went back to the first-floor an unsatisfied customer.

In typical fashion the receptionist caught me through his periphreal and propped his head up gingerly. I felt like planting one on his face, grabbing the nape of his neck, and crashing his head through the monitor which he was so enamored with. Blah, I really wouldn't do that. That was just my jet-lag speaking. But I did voice my being upset:

"The door aint opening." I put bluntly, strumming my fingers on his desk. I conciously attempted to potray dominance in the situation. My eyes never left his and my fingers played heavy notes on the oak. It was so convincing that if someone had walked in I believe they would have thought I owned the place.

The employee bumbled his words, "Well... hmmm, um. Let me see..." He went back to the computer. The violent urges came back. As he went to work a man approached from my side and planted a hand on my opposite shoulder, "What is the problem, Clark?" He asked the receptionist while keeping his eyes on mine.

"The ---" He began, but I butted in. It was my problem and no dweeb at a computer was going to put it quite right like I would, "The door to my room isn't opening. I've had a long day of travels, mister...?" "Peeble." Had it not been for the situation I would have snickered. In any case, I continued, "I have had an extraordinary amount of traveling experienced just today, it's a long story and --- " The man interrupted. At first this brought my violent imaginations to the fore-front again, but the man continued swiftly and utterly consoling, "Well then, while Clark here fixes the problem, let's have a drink over your story. Right this way."

And just like that I was taken into what I presumed to be the man's office of work.

The room had two tall, but thin, windows behind the presence of a fantastic (and probably expensive) wooden desk, upon which was stacked a great deal of papers, folders, and a simple little lamp that truly set the mood on its own. Flanking the desk were room-bordering shelves of books. I couldn't find one author I knew, but I was certain they all spoke of greater things then of that I could comprehend.

"Please, sit down, " he chopped the air with a hand, pointing to one of two chairs sitting just in front of the great-desk. He appeared to be adjusting his tie as he turned the desk's corner. He snorted, gave his tie one last tug, then sat behind the desk into a chair identical to the one I plopped into. His chair "pushed" with air as he settled in. Peeble stuck a finger up and mouthed 'one second' before reaching to one of the desk's compartments. He then brought out two glasses, set them down, reached back, and then withdrew a bottle of rum, popping its cap as he did.

The glasses clinked as his hands went to pour the drinks. His throat grunted as he reached across and handed me a glass. I sipped it. The taste was dreadful, and, making sure to mask my displeasure doing so, set the glass back on the desk. "So, tell me, mister... Roberts, am I correct?" I nodded, "Casey Roberts." He mouthed, "Casey Roberts... hm... what is your order of business?"

"Private investigator."

"Oh really?" His interest seemed piqued. I could not read in what way though. There are a few different kinds of interests. There is the interest in learning new things. There is the interest of finding out something that could effect your life. The kind of interest happened upon when your life can be improved because of it... plenty of interests. Violent, greedy, and, of course, simply curiosity. "And what brings you here to the town of Dasan? We are nothing but a simple mining town that gets along on its own... unless... You've come to find the explanation for sir Gerrard Stevens."

I nodded, "That's what I'm here for." I noticed that the talks had quickly detoured from what I expected. We weren't speaking of my travels... we were speaking of my job. And this man's questioning made me get the feeling that I was in a very wrong situation. "You don't happen to know anything of Gerrard, do you?" I asked, "I have very few leads. The man comes down here because the town was looking for a new mine-manager with experience. The man takes the job. He works three weeks then poof, he's gone."

Peeble sipped at the rum, nodding his head as he agreed through his closed mouth. "Mm-hm, mm-hm," he hummed sporadically before swallowing the drink. "I met Mr. Stevens when he first arrived. Stayed in this very hotel, which shouldn't be surprising as it is the only one in town. I spoke often with the man. Great fellow, he was. Had strange concepts of humanity and even stranger morals." I began taking mental notes immediately. Peeble continued, "Believed that humanity was not the only intelligent species in this universe. Also believed that when we were to meet this other group of intelligent beings that we would either do of two things: destroy the species in a fit of fear --- or outright control the species for our own good. Quite far-fetching ideas, really."

I stared into the desk momentarily, recollecting my thoughts. Throwing away useless junk, like the room-seventeen fiasco, and the ugly smug of the recpetionist's face --- and replacing it with what Gerrard Stevens thought of humanity's plight. But it truly didn't give me anything, so my questions went elsewhere.

"About this mine. How long has it been here? I've read that it was planning to close down over half-a-century ago, but suddenly came back to life in a fire of renewed business and success. There were headlines of new passage-ways found and that they were rich with minerals and metals... but I have yet to read one eye-witness account of such things. Don't you find it strange that a new mineral-deposit is found in a nearly-dead mine... but not one person can hold a descriptive account of it?"

Peeble opened his mouth but someone knocked on the door. The owner smiled and stood up as I did. It was Clark, popping his head in, "The problem's fixed." I smiled and nodded, hiding my true emotions. I left the room, but Peeble stayed at the door-way. He saluted me a good night as I treaded up the stairs. I thanked him for the drink and small-talk and quickly went to my room where I, exhaustedly, fell atop the bedsheets and into my dreams.

------

5:21, the clock read. I was amazed that, even through previous exhaustion, my "morning-person" entity still reigned true. I got up and shuffled around quite a bit, meandering with the morning acitivities: shower, break-fast, brushing teeth etc.. I took out the journal I always carried around when doing a job. I flipped past some older cases and got to some fresh pages where I began jotting down notes. When I finished I put the journal to a side, sat momentarily, then picked it back up. I flipped back to the pages I had written on and added this note: "I need to find out more about Peeble". The man confounded me. He lacked all emotions, yet at the same time presented every single one I have ever known. His mysterious nature was thus quite hostile in my imaginations. I put the edited-journal into a nearby drawer and got up to leave, slipping on an over-coat and a tie.

I propped my room-door open slowly and shut it with a click. I adjusted my neck-tie with stiff fingers before heading to the stairs. Voices from below murmured to each other with great ferocity. I paused at the stairway. It was Peeble and Clark, probably having to do with the mess-up of late last night. A phone at the receptionist desk rang. Peeble grabbed Clark by his shoulders, "Just take care of it, okay?" Clark nodded and made off to the phone and Peeble went into his office. I slowly stood up, put on a calm appearance, and motioned down the stairs. Clark acknowledged me, nodding then putting his palm on the phone's receiver, "How was your stay, Mr. Roberts?" I smiled, "It was fine, thank you. Can you point me to a corner-store of some kind?"

"Sure, " he pointed towards the door, then bent his hand left. "You'll see it, trust me." I nodded and thanked him for the instructions before stepping out of the uncomfortable aura of the room. Being outside was beautiful in itself. A little chilly perhaps, but that was to be expected of such an area.

The corner-store was right where Clark promised. The "Dasan's Corner-Store", glimmered in bright green letters that anyone could recognize immediately, yet forget instantly. I went in to buy a pack of smokes and then quickly came back out --- the owner was giving me strange looks the entire time I was in his presence. I looked down the road and eyed the large mountain brimming with clanks and shouting voices. A cigarette bobbed in my mouth as I lit up and took in a puff. The smoke filled my lungs with warmth. I blew it all out and watched it feather into the distance, becoming one with the town's many contrails forming from various chimneys and work-stations.

I began to make my way towards the mine, questions on my mind and a smoke in my hand.

The mountain loomed ever larger as I got ever closer. The noises became increasingly audible and distinct. People calling for certain tools, some "Shits!" and "Fucks!" of mishaps. A loud bang followed by a crescendo of a dying machine.

I noticed that there were very few vehicles on the street. It appeared that everyone simply walked where-ever they wanted to go. A school off to my right, a small one-floor "hospital" down the street to my left. One thing I took note of was that all of the vehicles here were trucks. I didn't see a car or convertible in sight. I shrugged it off; nothing more than the civic-transportation of a mining-town, the truck. My feet bounded off the paved road broke into a dirt track flooded with gravel. I got to the mine's gate and stopped to finish my smoke. As I threw it into the gravel and stomped it a gleam in nearby trees caught my eye.

I curiously ventured towards it. My hands brushed the bushes aside and I found a vehicle that should be nowhere near a town like this: a Vulture. "Now what in the hell is this doing here?" I asked myself aloud as I thrashed away a clutter of vines that had decided to enrich the Vulture's appearance. I searched the compartments and found a journal. I peered around me, put the bushes back into place, and stepped away. I found a concealed spot and began reading:

"I'm sorry to say that I am writing this entry. They know that I know. Great gods! What on earth did I see down there? Whatever it was I must pay for my viewing. The price appears to be my life: it seems as if the whole town wants my head! I've hid in the forest for sometime. I plan to put this back into my Vulture today as this will be my last entry --- they're getting closer and closer. Mobs of them. Flash-lights and shotguns in hand, they approach every area of where stealth could be used. Whoever shall find this that isn't of this town: Run..."

The writing sketched away into an unintelligible scribble.

I lowered the journal slowly as to let my thoughts come in without interference. Insanity? Just a mean trick for outside-travellers and wayward nomads? Truth?

In any case, I pocketed the journal to the decision that I would finish it later (I had only read the last entry, I'm a stickler for spoilers).

My eyes set on the mountain and the long trail with the occasional townsmen dotted along it. My first step was not an angelic one: I suddenly questioned if I should leave, right now. Forget the whole job, pay my employer's money back, and just get the hell out of here. But my curiosity got the best of me, and with its weight my foot lowered towards the mountain. Although the money was good, and my mind would rather have it be about that, it seemed the job was no longer about the coin --- but about the town, and whatever secrets it most certainly held.

------

The man leaned his arms over the gate, bending it awkwardly towards the ground, "Need somethin'?"

"Yes, I would like to tour this mine," I looked around. Men everywhere were picking up stones, changing shifts etc. One thing that stood out was that on the conveyor belt coming up from the mine were very queer looking stones. Crystals like I have never seen before. One man bent to pick it up, gave me a look, then turned away, dumping the glass-like object to another worker. The mine was a festival of hard-work, blaring noises, swears and screams.

"Sure. I can let you up on ground level, but I can't let you into the mine. Safety procedures," he turned and spit then started opening the gate, "Just make sure you stay out of the way of the workers, okay? Don't fuck anything up."

I nodded and walked through the gate. As he started closing it I turned around, "Is there _any_ way I can get into the mine?"

The man peered around curiously, "Why you wanna get into the mine so bad, traveler?" The hostile tone was a solid message, as was the man's physical appearance. "I'm just interested in the mine, that's all. As well as those," I pointed over his shoulder towards the conveyor belt. "Can you tell me about those since you can't let me into the mine?" Another spit, this time the man didn't turn his head, he simply shot it towards me. I stood my ground and the wad fell short of my shoes, "Look here, traveler, you can either see what you want up here, or go home. See that," he turned his shoulder and pointed towards the conveyor belt. "See that big post sticking out of the ground? Yeah, it says "Workers Only", that means myself, and these kind men," he swung his arm through the air, "are the only ones allowed into the mine, or near the conveyor belt. Now, again, you can either stay up here, or go back down the mountain. It's your choice."

I nodded, "Okay. I'll stay." But I have no intention of just meandering around up here, good fellow. I smiled and saluted him adieu. He grunted and turned away. Some men in the distance were loading a small convoy of trucks with the crystalline rocks. One man went from truck to truck writing things down on a clipboard. He'd occasional stare into the truck, perhaps move a low-hanging tarp out of the way, then move along to the next vehicle. He seemed to sense my watching and awkwardly turned towards me, his hand stopping in mid-write and the clip-board slowly lowering.

I made an inhuman-flap of speech and looked the other way.

The man's eyes had glowed a bright-white even from where I stood. My heart pounded and I could not resist the urge to smoke another cigarette. My fingers, trembling, brought the cigarette-carton out and arranged the meeting between lip and tobacco. It was just the sun, I suggested. Just the sun, no man could quite possibly have eyes like that!

I lit the cigarette, puffed it, and took the stick away from my mouth as my body shivered, "Nobody," I breathed before taking another toke. I looked back towards the trucks to see them again. To see those damned eyes and to, of course, settle the matters that it iwas/i in fact just the sun. But, alas, the man had left and my imagination was left to deteoriate on the subject.

After ten minutes of surveying and manipulating guards with the drawing power of money I had myself a way into the mine's main office. The building lay just in front of the mine's elevator-shaft, which was continously at work with its cranks chugging back and forth and the ropes whining in coordinance with the blistering winds that usually accompanied mountain-tops. The office itself was just a small trailer which I entered as stealthily as possible, even though just about anybody could see me if they wanted to.

As the light-metal door slammed behind me the sounds outside became muffled and muted, and the cold sort of melted into my skin instead of lingering atop it. The wind beat raps and melodies against the window and threw invisible rocks against the trailer-door. I simply searched about as the cacophony outside went about its own business. Papers, desks, notes, cabinets, everything ioffice/i.

I went to one of the filing cabinets and immediately opened the S-Z drawer. With stiff fingers I collapsed folder onto folder before finally coming upon the one I wanted: Stevens, Gerrard. I withdrew the documents and placed them on the table.

Much of the information I already knew. In fact, I knew rather all of the information given. It was the slight istatement/i that was stamped onto the bottom of one of the sheets that rang a new bell: "Dangerous", it read.

A siren went off outside. During the mine's production, minor-shifts were constantly changing, it appeared. But three times in each day there were large-shifts, where entire groups of people would exchange places --- at least that's what I've gathered from other remote-mining towns I've visited. With the alarm I quickly replaced the private-dossier and then searched about the desk. I found guest-passes among other tags that would help me into the mine. I found a "King Billings, Lead-Manager" signature and copied it as close to retail as possible. I saw a map on the trailer's wall that outlay the mine shafts and interior, pointing out areas of office and areas of work. How the former could operate in the actual mine was beyond me, but it was on there. The siren went off again outside. I quickly allocated the map to memory, put things back to as normal as best as I could remember, then finally stepped outside into the brisk, but now also muggy, air.

Workers all about were going this way and that. I saw a general stream heading towards the mine-elevator and more or less fell right in with them. I missed the first ride to my great displeasure and had to keep a low profile as it came back up. Men shuffled about and few talked, and when they did it was usually to themselves. The elevator finally arrived and I made sure that I was one of the first ones in. Stuck to the back of the cart, my face remained hidden. My back pressed into the elevator's border-grating as more and more piled in. Eventually someone waved their hands "full" and two sets of doors began to close. With the first 'clank' the outside world became a chess-board, with the second it resolved into a look of unfamilair darknesses as a solid slab settled down. With that the elevator began its descent. One man came to notice my apparel. Even though it somewhat blended in it was still not work-attire, that was for sure. He took nothing of it and I assumed that workers often showed up in home-wear. My badge rang proudly the signature of King Billings, but I quickly took it down. I figured that being a "mine tourist" would draw more attention then simply being a (supposed) "mine worker". So that was that: I would pass off for one of the towns people.

The elevator hummed loudly as it slowed to a clanging final stop. The solid-door raised-up first, then the grating-side slid away. We all filed out and before I could even look behind me the elevator had already drifted back up the shaft. Immediately I noticed the great change in temperature. As the enviroments above were quite cool, if not entirely cold, the air here strummed a thick beefy feel. The almost mind-boggling amount of lighting was probably the reason, but I never felt any heat when I neared one of the instruments. The source of the weather had to come from somewhere else. Everywhich way there were tunnels, halls, escapades to rush down and lose yourself in. I could see myself going insane in a short amount of time if I were to wake up in such a place. A mine is a nightmare when treaded on with terms-held-back. Luckily I could resort to my memory of the map. I went straight and somewhat-down, the slope strict enough to make me balance with clown-like gesticulations. The workers about me, completely lacking in any motion besides their walk, never seemed to notice. With that, my embarassment was held in check by their lack of interest in actions that would normally warrant a snicker.

The walls of the caverns themselves looked to lack anysort of vital mineral depository. I could not sight one scrap of ore. I quickly remembered, though, that the town's newspapers had traced the mine's earthly relics to the lower and newer caverns. So down I went, lower and lower. On occasion a small tunnel would branch off from the main high-way I paced, but besides these occasions travel became a boring affair. Workers never showed emotion or personality. The walls were dank and unoriginal, even being that they were ordinary mountain-innards.

As the flooring leveled out I came upon the "Mine Office". I glanced about then let myself in, clicking the door shut behind me. The room was simple: a small jut in the cavern-walls, really, with just a door and some walls put up to keep everyone outside from looking in. There was a cup of coffee on the desk that was still warm, but I didn't know if that was due to it being fresh, or simply the mine's heavy temperature. The room was more or less a minimized version of the trailer: just one desk, fewer scattered papers, and only one cabinet. The bulletin-board on the wall, which hung at an angle, had far more notes on it, though, as it more than likely depicted events closely related to the numerable workers. I maneuvered around a wooden-chair to the side of the desk and looked at the papers. Nothing worthwhile --- no Stevens. I moved the cabinet and was taking a sleeve-out when I noticed a large paper rolled up to the side of the cabinet, smushed between it and the wrinkly-wall. With a little effort and a stretch I plucked it out and set it on the desk. I removed the rubber-bands that kept it circled-up and began to unravel it. Three envelopes appeared and the paper itself showed an array of some sort of strange schematics that were represented in two languages, one of which I had never seen before.

First I took a look at the envelopes. All three had some connection to the Dasan's Inn owner, Peeble --- "Zeb" Peeble, and some other people who I had no connections with: Mr. Paulstone, Mr. Gregory, and a Mr. Crawford. Either Peeble worked at both the Dasan's Inn and the mine, or he was an investor in the mine --- or perhaps had struck a deal with the mine itself. Baffled, I moved the letters aside and took in the schematics-sheet: a wide piece of paper full of writing, art-work and overall belonging to the scientific field. I saw the crystalline matter drawn to a tee: it was measured up and down and in and out. There were also notes describing what was the "best" way to produce the crystalline for "little cost", but high "efficiency". There was also a note about the dangers of the material. That "a mutilation of the eyes" had occured in three cases, but "blindness" was not apparent at all. In fact, vision "greater than 20/20" had been recorded in two of the men. A final note suggested that the material was harmless in a serious-sense, and anybody whose cosmetic-appearance was effected would be compensated for. The rest of the paper was alien to me; strange graphics and glyphs that had no place in my memory. The only thing I recognized was a drawing of a human body --- but that was about as far as my recognition went: besides the basic forms, the body was a tragic-mutation. The face was bubbled out, leaving one eye missing; the shoulders were jagged and exaggerated; the muscular shape of the body was in a state of overall fitness, but that did not make up for the mutilated hands, which were elongated to more than a foot-per-finger. Next to the horrific sketching were arrows and lines drawn away from it, pointing out specific things --- but, again, all of that was also foreign to me.

I was getting ready to put everything back up when the door popped open behind me. I gasped and my heart stuttered. I slowly turned around and faced a rather large man, "What have you seen?" He questioned, his fat hand still hanging on the knob. I mouthed something, but even I didn't know what it was. Just what had I seen? I had no idea, but the man asked again anyway. I answered as best I could, "Nothing." Ignorance is bliss, but does that apply to both natural ignorance and forced ignorance? I presumed this knowledge would be found soon enough. "Nothing, huh? I'm guessing you're the private investigator, snooping around for things that don't belong to your seeing. The papers, you saw them?" I nodded, "I saw them."

"And what did you see on those papers?"

"Nothing."

"That is strange, my friend, because I remember there being something on those papers. The letters, did you open them?"

I shook my head. I felt one of my hands gripping the desk, and the other drawing its fingers through the crevices of the chair.

"I'm sorry to say, " the man begun, snapping his fingers outside the door. I heard footsteps, "That I actually knew of your presence down here. Did you actually think you could get away, mister..." he read, "'King Billings'?" The man shook his head and stepped aside. One man entered the room quickly followed by another. They were armed with trudgeons and cracked-knuckles. I was in no position to fight but put the chair in front of me to buy time, "Wait a second, just wait a second." The man kicked the chair out of the way. I stuck my hands up, fingers open, "I'm just here doing my job."

"So am I," the man at the door said, and with that a fist cracked me across the temple and the last thing I could remember before the fog eclipsed my memory was my body being dragged out of the room to the laughter of three men.

------

A voice. A living non-existant, it spoke in decryptive words.

"iCass... Cadaver... C-Clements, C-C-c... Casey.../i ROBERTS."

My chest lurched forward. There was an incredible pain left over from my horrible dream, whatever it may have been. My shirt was pulp with my sweat. Such a horrible feeling being so unclean, especially in your own body's produce. I wiped my brow and took bearings on my environment. Its nature came immediately: I was in a cell. The ceiling was wooden with the occasional passer-by whose every step was audible in dull echoes. Three walls and one big-metal door, not solid, but filled with static-bars and a large block where, undeniably, the key went.

There lay before me a small room that appeared cut into the mine not by hand, but by rushing water of eons past. Not very much alike the other areas of the mine, the room was full of large electronics and dials, whose cords and cables ran amok among the room with a sort of snake-like veilness. I couldn't help but feel chilled when I saw a strange object, at human length and width, laying upon a table in the middle of it all. With each rise of what was more than likely a chest, certain dials and beeps would go off. There was a heart-tracker, and a brain-wave reader, which the former went slower and the latter quicker than what I had seen before from such devices. In fact, I figured the being to be dying, but those assumptions were put to rest when ten minutes had passed and the creature still lay, a living, breathing and unknown unimaginable-phenomenon which my brain could not help but feed on to cure the boredom of my time. All this from a simple sillouhette of sheets and the light rasps that which came from 'neath.

For an absurd amount of time I paced back and forth while unnamed steps did the same above me. I rattled the bars that held me --- their movement was minimal at best. The heap on the table continued to breath with an occasional hack or intense cough which never failed to startle me. With obscure randomness I began to whistle songs and tunes that I heard through my years. As I did so I inspected my cell with slow hands and aching feet. My fingers laced the walls looking for grooves, cracks, something. I stamped my feet a few times hoping to, perhaps, break through the flooring.It didn't happen: the millions of years it took to erect this mountain bettered my brief existence. Eventually I sat back down on my bed and plopped my head into my hands. A sigh left my lungs and I turned to look towards the pile of sheets.

An idea.

I began to look around furiously for something, ianything/i, to throw. I found a small pebble and picked it up. I magnified its importance with a gazing stare, letting my eyes go deep into its primitive shape. I slipped the rock loosely into the notch of my index-finger, aimed, and let it fly. It bounced off the sheets and hit one of the electronic panels across the way. A little movement from the being, but nothing to write home about.

"Hey!" I pushed into the bars, "Hey! Wake up... or something!"

At that moment a door, hidden behind an outstretched face of rock, creaked open and was quickly followed by footsteps. A man came into view holding a clipboard and pen. Without acknowledging my presence he went to work inspecting what I assumed his "project". Another man came into the room: an inquisitive guard. He seemed rather spooked as he etched closer and closer to the unknown entity. Right when I thought he'd get a good look at it he changed his mind, seeing me as a more "easily approached" target.

"Hey outsider," he said crossing the room. The man unsheathed a bludgeon and began to bat it into his hands, "Want to have some fun?"

He suddenly leapt from his friendly walk and slammed the stick into the cell. The clip-board-man scolded him, and while the guard was turned I shot my hands through the bars and clutched the bludgeon from his clutch, wrapped it around his neck and then pulled him into the bars. There was a small effort on his part, but that quickly gave way to a small "crack" and the man fell the second I decided to let him. The clip-boarder paused in fright, watching the whole scene before beginning to scream and shout as he left the room in a hurry. I crouched and searched the dead man's pockets. His body lurched with every pull and twist that I put onto it. Eventually I found what I wanted, and with some tact, unlocked the cell. The bars swept open cleanly unlike others that breached noisily due to over-use.

Once free, I searched the guard again for anysort of weaponary. Nothing. But I had the bludgeon, and that was good enough for my uses. As far as my feet and eyes went, there were only two doors to the room. I expected both to be flooded with miners and others soon enough so I made my actions swift and speedy. But there was something stalling me. Something groping at my heels that I couldn't drag with any success: the thing. I stopped in the middle of the room and turned towards it. The bleeps and boops continued un-disturbed by the recent activity. I put one step towards it. Two. Three. They quickly added up and eventually I was afront it, my hand wavering above the edges of sheet and cloth. I picked at the tabs and once I had anysort of grasp immediately threw everything back. In a fluster of white and visual terror I fell backwards, my hands dragging down what medical tools were in reach. The loud clutter and crash was just as frightening as the being itself.

An awkward silence overtook the room, but the thing was no longer dormant. Its hands and feet were moving, and its head was swiveling from side to side, albeit slowly. I backed away a few feet before standing up. A hideous mutation. Perhaps it was human, or at least once was human, but was so far from my own homosapien appearance that one could argue quite strongly against such a forgiving thought. Regardless, I took another step towards it.

Then, with deep-throated grasps of language, the thing seemed to break a barrier I thought untouchable: it talked.

"Hell-help me... help me up."

At first I was hesitant, but the voice was so friendly that it trashed any doubts I had. I was not to be betrayed as my hand clutched his and pulled him up off the cart without incident. His body was of the same height as mine, but I doubted this was true before the... change. His chest was plump, not in the sense that meat and bone had grown, but that advanced mutations occured that I have never in my time seen before. His face was lopsided, taking towards his left-cheek in a way that spoke ugliness, but, of course, invoked one's pity. He certainly iseemed/i human: his eyes darted each way as to gain his bearings just as I had done not long ago. He gripped his own palms to strain the tendons and get the blood flowing again. His stance wobbled a little, but eventually he gained posture. I was not sure, but it seemed as if his body had gained a certain amount of weight after some time of being up-right.

Suddenly the door across the room burst open, its weight blasting upon the wall and then lurching back towards the advancer. The man palmed the wood back out of his way and ran into the room with a bludgeon held high and a voice held stern. I ducked out of the way, but my mutated-accomplice stuck his arm out, took a large step towards the man, and clotheslined him. There was a loud blast of flesh on flesh. The man hit the floor and gasped for air. More guards flooded into the room. The mutation growled, wavered a little, then charged into them. I watched in awe as he thrashed the group. In one punch a man had his head twisted so far in direction that his neck broke in a crescendo of cracks. Another was punched in the shoulder, and I watched in horror as the entire right-side of his chest dipped, completely crushed. The thing's attacks grew more and more potent. With each strike the opposing participant's reception was increasingly dire before, finally, the last person was completely destroyed, a punch landing into his chest and collapsing his center of gravity entirely and killing him instantly.

I didn't know if I should beg alliance or simply run. I chose the latter. I turned and ran towards the opposite door but it blew open, knocking me aback. A guard charged in after me. I ducked out of the way but was then speared in the back by another guard. I felt my bones pop as he hit me and my chin cried oppressment as it was driven into the floor. I was repeatedly punched in the back of the head before, in an instant, all infliction ceased to the scream of just one man. I slowly turned my shielded-head and looked above me. The mutation was holding an arm that did not belong to his body. I let out a small squeak of fear and quickly backed away from the thing. I looked elsewhere, catching glimpse of a de-limbered man feebily crawling his way out of the room.

The arms dropped, "If you don't want this to happen to anyone else, follow me." I looked at his open hand and decided the options proved to be singular: I took his protection. He propped me up, swept away the dust that cluttered my chest, then led me out of the room. We ran what I could only assume further into what seemed like an endless mine. I predicted I was already a good distance into it, but I had no idea of just how far since being knocked out. The signs we passed became increasingly restrictive, possessing words like "ID-ERS ONLY" and "CAUGHT WITHOUT PASS MAY RESULT IN DEATH", all put in a way that was normally big, bolded, and in red. I could only imagine what may call for such restrictions. Then came the biggest note of all, "NO LIGHTERS, FIREARMS, OR SPARKING OBJECTS BEYOND THIS POINT!" quickly followed in smaller letters, "Gas emissions are extremely flammable." This explained the lack of gun-wielding guards --- although I must say that the trudgeons proved to be just as lethal.

Suddenly we fell into a gigantic room. The proportions, even while being visible to my very eyes, remained out of comprehension. I was in utter awe. It looked as if for miles and miles the room went up, out, and perhaps even down. "We still can't be in the mountain," I said without thought. From what little I could calculate the mountain's girth at the base would have to be miles wide, something I have not seen a geographic structure akin to a mountain possess.

My eyes suddenly found a pile of the white-crystals I had seen above-ground. Their color was a little more dull and unprocessed, but they still grabbed your attention regardless. "Don't touch them," the mutation warned. I found myself stopped in mid-motion, a hand above one of the formations. I withdrew it and nodded. My mind was racing, trying to recollect itself and regain control over the body. "I can't seem to be able to think clearly... My thoughts come and go, and my body's control seems shifting..." I wavered. In one instance I had my hand on my head, but it soon fell away and went into my pocket. Then I had my fingers stroking my chest. "Is it the crystals?" I asked as my body continued to do things almost at random. The mutation himself was a little agitated. He seemed to be trying to figure something out but his mind was also being blended. He shook his head, "It isn't the crystals. It's ithem/i, the things from space. We're close and they are trying to persuade our intentions to go elsewhere."

"What intentions? Who is doing this?" I fell to my knees and screamed, but my ears could not even hear myself. Was I even screaming?

The mutation fell into a wall, but strongly propped himself up, "I dont know who they are... I have only caught mere glimpses, and that was during my exchange."

"Exchange?" I breathed, standing myself up. The room seemed to crash into my very eyes and my mind exploded into a migraine I had never experienced before.

"Just stay strong," the ugly beast consoled, "Just stay strong, its attack will be over soon." And just like that, it was. The room suddenly came into proportion, it wasn't miles and miles in length, but actually only twenty yards or so, if that. My mind had a cooling-period, too. The feeling of ectasy came over me as my mind resumed control. As my iconcious/i resumed control.

"What the hell was that about?" I immediately questioned.

"Let's move on," the thing gestured towards an opening in the near-wall. I shook my head, "No! There are things here that I cannot even explain. What's going on? I came here for a job and I feel like I'm riding an amusement ride from Hell! Where are we going? Who are you? iWhat/i are you? Do you know Gerrard Stevens? That's the man I'm looking for, Stevens. I would like to find him, or what happened to him, then be done and gone. To leave this damned place, this damned inightmare/i."

The mutation sighed, wheezed, actually would be the more appropriate description, but the lax attitude was the same. Something in his eyes screamed for my investigator-senses. But it is hard to catch something in visual-machinimations you have never seen before. The mutation licked his lips, shuffled his back off the wall, threw his hands open from his sides and said, "You're looking at him. You're looking at Gerrard Stevens. You're looking at what ihappened/i to Gerrard Stevens."

My response was something of a surprise to the both of us: I didn't really have one. I motioned by mouth, but nothing really ever came out. I drew for thoughts, but none were touched. I had a photo of Gerrard, back when my employer and I talked of the job, and this thing --- this defacing of a human being, this, iabomination/i --- held not one smear, not one illusion, not one elusive speck of evidence... to the man known as Gerrard Stevens.

Acceptance. It is a hard thing to come by. Perhaps it is easier now then it was in the past. Time seems to have a healing touch with such matters. But it was rough, it was almost impossible, really, to grasp what had come of Gerrard.

"Let's get moving now. My mind is almost under its control," his un-definite jaws moved to the oiling of a broken puss-boil. I stared down a long passage-way where air was funneling out of. "That way?" I asked. The Gerrard-thing nodded, "That way." And so we went.

------

My first meeting with the creatures happened instanteously and then with rapid succession. First we came upon some strange flooring. At one glance I took it for a horrible choice in carpeting or matting, but when I took a closer look I realized something truly horrible: what I was standing on was alive. It was of a dark-purplish color and pulsated in oceanic-like fervor. Brown and red veins ran all over it and my scientific side took a sample with a pinch of my fingers. There was a tiny groan from the area which I had plucked. When I brought the ripped-skin (or innnard?) to my eyes it died practically instantly. Separation from the central-mass had killed it immediately. I assumed it'd be like taking a human off his planet without protection. It smelt of oil and a blend of rotten foods.

"Terrible," I commented, tossing the thing to the ground. Gerrard-thing continued forward, treading the rippling ground with ease. It took me awhile to get used to the constantly-changing terrain, but in time I got a steady tempo going and figured out just where to step and when. The purple-mass spread out before us almost never-ending. It wound up the walls and occasionally went as far as the ceiling. Whatever it did, my body kept shuddering in disgust as the liquids and plasma rushed to and fro with grimacing squirts and bubbles.

Then the biological masses took an evolutionary step: as we tread through the purple-mass something squealed up ahead. My eyes were directed by the noise, but all I saw was an escaping silouhette. "Do not worry," Gerrard soothed, "It is nothing but a worker." Fantasies came to my mind almost instantly. Worker? Alien worker? Insect-like? That's how I always saw aliens in my dreams, as gigantic insects with deformations and ghastly mutations. They always trapped me into some sort of box where I'd cry myself into awakening. They were only nightmares, and don't they say only dreams come true?

"_Do not question your concious_."

"What?" I turned around. I found myself grabbing the trudgeon.

"It's the thing," Gerrard said. "I suggest we move faster."

His voice sounded so dead.

"_Which one?_"

"Gerrard..." I looked about me. My mutated-guide spoke without even turning back, "Do not listen to it. Do not think. It feeds of thought. And whatever you do, do not think of past memories." I assumed he was receiving the same mental molestations.

"_When was the last time you talked to your mother, Casey? Please, let me know. I want to destroy your memories. Just let me have just one --- just one. Please? C'mon Casey, when was the last time you celebrated a birthday with others? Last time you, f-f-f-fucked someone? Was it a guy? A girl? Was it rape? P-p-please let me know, Casey Roberts. Let me know, Casey. I destroy m-m-memories, but you don't mind that, do you? So let me have one. Maybe two. Is two okay? I th-th-think it is, d-d-don't you? C'MON, CASEY! GIVE ME JUST ONE, JUST ONE! bJUST ONE!!!_"

"We're here," Gerrard gesticulated me to crouch. And with that the voice was gone. "I didn't give him anything," I said aloud. "That is good to know. Just stay quiet, it knows we're... close." Gerrard was acting funny, he kept looking back at me, then back into some cavern ahead. "Gerrard...?" I planted a hand on his shoulder. There was a growl, not from his mouth, but from some wicked-manifestation somewhere on his back. I withdrew immediately. "Gerrard... Oh my God," he turned back to me. He was now truly dead inside. Whatever last glimpse of humanity he had once had was now gone. "Oh my God, Gerrard, you didn't..."

"Casey, get away from me, get away! It's taking ahold of me... get-get---," Gerrard's hands flew into the air before he slammed them onto the ground. Cracks spider-webbed their way from his palms. I stood up and took a step back. I gripped my bludgeon with one hand, then another. "Kill me. Knock me out, do something... my God!" Gerrard's fingers now clenched inwards, literally digging up the very ground they touched. I raised the bludgeon slowly and involuntarily winced. Gerrard flinged towards me, grabbing my ankles, "_DO IT!!!_"

So I did. I brought the weapon down hard and fast. The facing clubbed Gerrard over the skull and his eyes immediately faded away and his body crumpled to a side. He was not dead for his chest still rose and flattened. I questioned the idea of hitting him again, of putting him truly out of his misery, but for some reason I went against this violent proposition knowing full well I might just see Gerrard again, but not the man I'd known him as. Not the _thing_ I'd known him as. But there was always hope.

So in place of pounding Gerrard's skull in, I rolled his body into a crevice of the cave and then somehow found my body motioning farther and farther into the mine. What drove me? Surly not the insanity that tried to split my head, right? I was going because of my own reason. I had not yet loss the use of my reasoning, by God!

"_There is no God, Casey. God is something you create to fill that horrible void... that horrid thing called the unknown. You fear this, don't you? Then why, Casey, why are you coming closer to me?_"

"Faith," I found myself answering.

"_Obviously faith could not save your friend._"

I raced for a rebuke to this, but found nothing. With this failure my protective walls crumbled and the mental-rapist entered the arena uncontended.

"_You see, Casey, faith can only go so far. You want to know something? I'm about as close to your comprehension of a 'god' you'll ever see. There's something truly funny about this human race that you are an attachment of... that you are... attatched to. Want to know what that is?_" The wait for a response was momentary at best, "_What's so funny, Casey, is that the human race is entirely un-fit for survival. You can only breathe a certain air. You cannot live in the space and oblivion that surrounds your meaningless lives. It takes the common universal creature less than a few months to adapt, most, in fact, can do so in weeks, if not days, hours, minutes. Our study of your race shows that it takes the common human thousands of years to adapt. What's funny, ha-ha! What's so damn FUNNY, is that the average human life does not even tread this time, nor come close to it. By the way, take a left here. Anyway, we believe it is our right to help the human race along. We believe it is our... oh, what is the word... duty? It is our duty to save the human race. To put our cultures together and form one large being. Don't worry, we've done this process before and it has churned out successes beyond your finite imagination! There's always just a little problem with the process, but you know how it is, right? You humans do it all the time, what do you call it...?"_

I came upon a vast room, one far larger than any previous. Here the purple mesh literally iwas/i the cave: I could not spot one single piece of rock. Below my feet alien blood and fluids pulsated and graduated to bigger and greater veins, a movement I became fond of over time. And there, just ahead, lay something that rose out of the eternal-pulsating, out of the surrounding gulps and slobbers, out of the very purple land-fill. It looked something like a gigantic liver. One that been drunk into a bloodied, mutilated shell of its healthy-self.

I began to laugh. It creeped up on me, sort've building up in my stomach and then traversing to my throat as an itch where I finally scratched it with a bundle of surreal joy and laughter.

"_What is so funny?_" The blob spoke queerly. "_Self-revelation of your finiteness? Sudden loss of well-being and solid self-perception?_"

"The joke's on you," I said, clapping a hand on a knee. "The joke is on you and your fat, disgusting, filthy existence."

"_Ah, but don't you see---_"

"...and your reluctance to do anything. Your mind-games that failed. Your immobility. Your ineptness, my friend, your ineptness is the punch-line!"

"_Sit down, human, before I have you torn apart!_" The thing appeared to rise off the ground a little. Out of the corner of my eye strange beings began to emerge from holes I had not seen before. I cared not to eye them for a closer look. Instead I continued to berate and belittle the giant blob, "Tear me apart? But you're supposed to use me for experiments and your 'process'... Bah! Have you ever heard of the joke, 'Why did the chicken cross the road'?"

"_Shut-up! SHUT UP!_"

"It goes something like this: fuck --- you." And with that Gerrard roared from behind me, diving through the air and landing atop the liver-brain. His body was of another entity, but his face had reclaimed the humanity that it had lost before. I backed away, as did the minions about me. They growled and wimpered and fell into their caves. "Casey," Gerrard knelt down, hand-and-knee atop the thing. Alien-voices crashed through the room. The liver-brain was sending some sort of erratic and panicked message to the minions, but they failed to respond. "Casey," Gerrard called for me again. I caught his eyes, "Casey," he smiled, "I think you knocked it out of me," He said shakeningly. I smiled, "I know." And with that there was a tremendous explosion as Gerrard burst before my very eyes. My body found itself tossed into the air and beaten into a face of rock. As my concious faded, peacefully and unmolested, I found myself answering the thing's question: what do we humans do? We always, "Survive." And with that the world enacted a fade to black.


End file.
